


A Scandal on Baker Street

by VTsuion



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Investigation, M/M, POV Godfrey Norton, Period-Typical Homophobia, Suspected Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-07-30 13:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20097628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTsuion/pseuds/VTsuion
Summary: Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of Godfrey Norton, Esq.: An account of his accompaniment of his wife, Mrs. Irene Norton (née Adler), in the investigation of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, M.D., under the employment of Professor James Moriarty.





	1. Prologue

There is little to be said about me. My name, Godfrey Norton, has little reason to be known. I am an English lawyer, who, having left London, has found refuge in the only city that may be said to surpass it for better and for worse. I am employed by the wealthy men who enter Wall Street with money and time to spare and sit back to watch it multiply beyond comprehension.

It is my dear wife, the illustrious Irene (née Adler), who is by far the most notable thing about me. Even men who have seen her only in passing find her to die for. She has the voice of an angel and has been the “favorite,” upon various occasions, of several European monarchs - the most notable such occasion being that infamous “Scandal in Bohemia.”

However, that is only as she has already been seen by the public; my restating it is redundant. No, I am writing to record the strangest incident to which my dear wife and I have yet been privy. I hope that it will illuminate another side of her, that of the brilliant woman who has bested one of the greatest minds in Europe. But I suppose this case is less a tale of the victory of women than the folly of men.

I will try to keep to the facts with as little personal input as possible, but I also seek to guide you, the reader, through a tale in which much is implied and little can be said.

It began upon a pleasant spring morning in early April of 1891. The trees were just beginning to bud, the sky was a beautiful bright blue, and the air was crisp, but not too cold. It was a welcome relief after the long, cold winter - nothing to which an Englishman like myself was unaccustomed, but tiring after a time nonetheless. Irene and I were just returning from a pleasant walk in the park when we discovered a man waiting in our sitting room, perched upon my usual chair by the window.

He was tall and thin with deep, sunken eyes and rounded shoulders that gave the impression he had spent many hours bent over ancient tomes. His great domed head - a sign of great intelligence - swayed from side to side as he spoke. There was something restrained, almost ascetic about him, like an old monk or a professor from some ivory tower who subsisted more on knowledge than mortal food or drink.

“Good morning,” he greeted us with a thin smile. His gestures were small and tight, as if no motion was wasted. “My apologies for the intrusion.”

“Not at all,” I replied.

I glanced over at Irene to find her preoccupied with examining our visitor. It seemed he was a stranger to the both of us.

So, I added on, “I typically consult in my office.” I gestured towards the hall, confident of his purpose, albeit confused as to why the maid had not directed him there when he arrived.

He gave me another tight-lipped smile. “It is a consultation I seek, but I believe the late Miss Adler would be of more use to me than yourself. No slight intended to your own talents, of course,” he said, though his tone made it clear that he did not care whether I had taken offense or not.

“And you are…?” Irene spoke up at last.

“Consider me a prospective client.” He stood, an arm outstretched.

Irene took it and they briefly shook hands.

“I am Professor James Moriarty. My expertise is in mathematics, but I am here on a more private business. You ought to know, I have taken great pains to locate you.”

“What business do you have with me?” she asked, her eyes wide in exaggerated surprise. 

Instead of answering, he gestured at the chair across from him. “Let us not be strangers, it is your own home after all. Do take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

“Very well,” she replied, a little taken aback by being told to make herself comfortable in her own home, but she complied.

Professor Moriarty returned to my chair and Irene took her usual place, just across from him.

“I believe it is time I leave you to talk,” I declared and made my way to the door. “I can call for tea, if you like.”

“No, thank you-” Professor Moriarty began, but Irene cut him off.

“Not so fast,” she said to me, with a disarming smile, “I believe you may be of use to me yet.” She turned to the professor and explained, “Anything you tell me will get to him regardless, so he may as well hear it first hand.”

“This is a most delicate matter,” the professor protested. “If word were to get out, it would be disastrous.”

“He is as trustworthy as myself, I assure you, and there are no secrets between us.” Despite her confident demeanor, she must have been wary of this Professor Moriarty to insist upon my presence at a private consultation.

“Of course, my apologies for underestimating the bond between man and wife.” I almost detected a hint of sarcasm to his tone. “You may as well seat yourself,” he concluded with barely a glance in my direction.

I hurriedly sat down on the couch a few feet behind Irene and waited for the conversation to resume.

Irene picked up where they had left off, “So what brings a professor of mathematics all the way across the pond to our humble abode?” Again, she feigned wide-eyed innocence.

“As I said,” Professor Moriarty answered with some impatience, “I am not here on professional business, but to seek your aid in a more private matter. I am a well connected man with acquaintances in all rungs of society. As a result, people often come to me with their troubles in the hopes that if I cannot help them, I know someone who can. However, at times I find that not even one of my myriad acquaintances possess the necessary expertise. The matter that brings me to your door is one of particular import and delicacy that requires someone of your particular talents.”

“I take it your employer isn’t an opera missing a prima donna,” Irene remarked with a crooked smile.

The professor appeared significantly less amused. “I am aware of your acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he began in a rather roundabout way.

Irene interrupted almost immediately, “Yes, so is everyone else after that friend of his, Dr. Watson, published ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ - I believe it was. A lovely piece too, though that disclaimer at the beginning has led to quite a bit more speculation as to my ‘relations’ with the man than I would have liked.”

I had to stop myself from laughing at the familiar complaint.

“Despite public speculation about his relations with you, Mr. Holmes is suspected of a less savory offence,” Professor Moriarty explained. “You are one of few who have bested the detective. Between your” - he paused - “innocuous form and your previously demonstrated abilities you are the person best suited to investigating him and establishing his innocence. Of course you will be reimbursed for your troubles.”

“Really?” Irene exclaimed, her eyes a little too wide in bewilderment. “I’m flattered, but I’m no detective. I just help ladies - friends of mine, really - with their little problems. It’s merely a hobby of mine. That and I suppose I have a penchant for self preservation.” She gave him a little smile. “What do you expect me to be able to do?”

“It is the nature of the case at hand,” he replied delicately. “I believe it falls under your area of expertise rather nicely. If my records serve me, you’ve even taken a case of the same nature before.”

“And what is ‘the nature of the case?’ I can’t do whatever you expect of me without the most basic knowledge,” Irene insisted.

“I have been asked to investigate Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. You are to speak with their friends and acquaintances and determine what exactly, if anything, is…” - the professor considered for a moment - “between them.”

I glanced at Irene to confirm that I understood what the professor was suggesting, perhaps in the hope that she would share in my surprise, but she seemed to take it in stride.

“I will not go without my husband,” she declared somewhat abruptly. “And unlike myself, he is not at leisure to leave at a moment’s notice; he has a significant legal practice to tend to.”

I knew Irene was no stranger to travelling alone, but I supposed London was another matter entirely, especially with such a purpose.

“Well, then that prevents him from joining you, doesn’t it? I beseech you to reconsider your position on the matter,” the professor replied. He seemed to be beginning to lose his patience and there was something cold in his dark eyes that suggested maybe that would be something best avoided.

Still, Irene answered with an unshakeable stubbornness, “It appears we are at an impasse. I will not return to London without him.”

The professor considered the demand; if he were another man, I suspect he may have sighed. At last, he said, “If he must come, then I suppose I have a few capable contacts who I may be able to convince to take on his current cases for the time it takes for you to investigate. But this is a very private matter, about which we would not want word to get out.”

“Of course,” she said simply, “He is essential to any work you expect me to do. Though if you have the resources to hire someone to take over a considerable legal practice on such short notice, I question your decision to recruit _ me _ instead of an official detective or private investigator.”

“False humility does not suit you, Mrs. Norton. I have explained why you are necessary to the investigation, and the request for your assistance stands. I will manage the fulfillment of your husband’s responsibilities while you are away.”

“I’m flattered,” Irene replied with a dismissive wave of her hand, “But even with my prestigious abilities, I would find it impossible to investigate your suspects without a place to start. Despite public opinion, I know little of Mr. Holmes’ personal life and have no intention of walking up to him and asking him whether he has committed indecency with his former flatmate.”

“Mr. Holmes is in France at the moment,” Professor Moriarty said drily, “And will not return for quite some time-”

“How do you expect me to find evidence if I can’t even observe the suspects?” Irene exclaimed.

“You will have to make do,” the professor replied, his frown almost a sneer. “Dr. Watson has no such travel plans. He lives with his lovely wife Mary. Mr. Holmes has an older brother, by the name of Mycroft, who can be found at the Diogenes Club on Pall Mall. There is also Mrs. Hudson, his landlady of several years - a perfectly agreeable woman, if protective of her long-term tenants. You are, of course, to act with the utmost discretion; we would not want knowledge of this suspicion released prematurely, especially with what it could do to their prestigious reputations.”

I wondered why bother to investigate at all, if the suspects’ reputations were such a concern, but Irene assented with a touch of pride, “Of course.”

The professor continued, “Your voyage across the Atlantic has been paid for; you will leave tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock sharp. Your husband will have to finance his own trip, as I was unprepared for your insistence upon his accompanying you-”

“You cannot pay one more person’s fare for a transatlantic voyage, yet you can easily hire someone to take over a sizable legal practice for several weeks at a moment’s notice?” Irene demanded. “Consider it an expense of employing me. I expect to be given all the resources I could possibly need to solve your mystery. My husband included.”

“Very well, it will be taken care of.” He stood with the expression of a man at the end of his patience.

“One moment,” I interrupted despite myself, “You are mainly seeking to ascertain relations between Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, is that correct?”

He gave an awkward smile, “To put it rather bluntly, yes.”

“If you intend to prosecute him under the Labouchere Amendment, would it not be more effective to establish a pattern of indecent behavior? I have never had a case of the sort myself, but I have read up on the law, and it relies on one suspect being the instigator, which would lend itself to prosecuting one person for several counts with multiple different accomplices.”

“My client has specifically inquired as to Dr. Watson’s involvement,” Professor Moriarty replied stiffly, “If you have no further questions-”

“Actually, just one more; this is a most disturbing matter, a case of most improper behavior. As remarkable as my dear Irene is, can you assure me that she will not be forced to go too deep into indecency herself in the course of her investigation? Her involvement in such a matter could be disastrous to her reputation. We have settled here for a reason, and we do not want to be uprooted once again.”

“She will be a free agent; nothing will be forced upon her, and you will be present to ensure that she is not dragged ‘too deep into indecency.’ May I also remind you that Mr. Holmes is in France at the moment, so you will have no need to encounter him directly.”

“You believe we will be able to solve the case without his presence or any excessive involvement on Irene’s part?”

“As I have already stated, yes, on both counts.” The professor was beginning to snap. He turned back to Irene, “Now, I believe that is all. One of my associates will call upon you once you have situated yourselves in London. Good day.” He gave each of us a little nod and left without another word.

“So we return to London…” I remarked as soon as he was out the door.

Irene nodded. “I wonder what interest Professor Moriarty’s client has in Mr. Holmes. And then there is the professor himself; you no doubt noticed his temper. He is not a man accustomed to being crossed. Yes, there are many points of interest in this case…” she trailed off.

I knew better than to interrupt when she was lost in thought.

Abruptly, she remarked with a smile, “I appreciate your concern for my reputation, but I believe, if nothing else, I have proven myself competent at self-defense.”

I chuckled. “True, but then, I cannot help but wonder what your intent was in insisting upon my joining you.”

“As I said,” she replied, as if it were obvious, “I am competent at self-defense; I know how to use what I have at my disposal. No offence to your autonomy, of course.”

“I’m terribly hurt,” I intoned.

“My apologies, I hope you’re not too insulted to agree to accompany me.” Her joking tone turned serious, “I did not intend to force you into joining me.”

“Not at all, my dear, I could use some time back in dear old England.” I tried to lighten the mood.

“We’re not going for pleasure,” she cautioned.

“I know.”

“I cannot deny that I feel some apprehension about returning, especially as we are walking right back into the danger we fled London to escape,” Irene admitted.

“You know you are under no obligation to cooperate with Professor Moriarty, whoever his client may be.”

“I know,” she replied, her eyes gleaming with energy, “But I’m curious. I want to know what his game is. Oh, I want to know what Mr. Holmes is up to as well, but who is this Moriarty? What does his client - or the professor himself - want with Mr. Holmes, or Dr. Watson’s wife? Don’t worry, Godfrey,” she added on, noticing my concerned expression, “I won’t do anything foolish, you know I can make a tactical retreat when I must, but the problems of butterflies can get so tiresome. I haven’t had a chance to do something this fun in quite some time.”

“And now I know why I needed to come with you,” I remarked.

She smiled back at me. “Yes, you’ll keep me out of too much danger, and I’m sure I can find other ways for you to make yourself useful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addooshoes (archiveofourown.org/users/addooshoes) and I came up with the idea for this story all the way back in 2014. I started writing it and got to the beginning of the fourth chapter before I ran out of steam - mostly because I didn’t know how to end it. After poking at the story for years, I finally got back to it last summer (along with some other long-neglected projects) and finished it up, and after yet another shorter delay, it is finally ready to post!
> 
> I know this is a bit different from my usual Star Trek fare, and I don’t want to neglect Kirk and Spock completely, so instead of posting a chapter of this every week until it’s done, I’ll post a chapter of A Scandal on Baker Street every other week, with other stories in between.


	2. Day 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a warning: starting at the end of this chapter, this story will take a small detour into a dark alleyway, where our leads will consider some unfortunate possibilities. Everyone emerges unscathed, but said possibilities are discussed, though not in great detail.

I set down yet another bag with a soft thud. “I believe that’s the last of them,” I declared into the luggage-filled sitting room of our temporary flat in London.

I paid the cabby who had helped bring in all of our things, and let myself fall onto the settee with a sigh. Irene was presumably still busy investigating the rest of the building - I had hardly seen her since we arrived.

However, I did not have long to wait before the door swung open. Had I not known her so well, I would have hardly recognized the slightly dumpy middle-aged woman who had joined me for the voyage. I was equally changed in appearance; my moustache had been shaved off, my hair coloured, and I was dressed in clothes a few sizes too big, with clear glasses over my eyes.

I forced myself to my feet. “If the rooms are all satisfactory, I suppose we ought to put our belongings away before we get caught up in the investigation.”

“I’d like to get started before our employer’s associate arrives…” She contemplated the door through which she had arrived hardly a minute ago.

“Darling, you’re not going to leave me with all of the unpacking, are you?” I teased, grabbing one of our shared bags from the pile.

“What if I did?” She asked with a wry smile.

“Then I’m certain I would put everything in all the wrong places. Or you would just have to take care of your own bags when you got back.”

“Thank you, Godfrey.” She gave me a kiss and hurried towards the door, grabbing her jacket on the way. “Good-bye, Mr. Albert Drebber.” She waved at me and left with a tinkling laugh.

“Good-bye, Victoria,” I said as the door closed behind her.

After I heard the door to the outside swing shut as well, I finally picked up one of our bags and carried it into the bedroom to begin unpacking.

I had plenty to think about as I worked. We had both read through Dr. Watson’s novels about Mr. Sherlock Holmes during the week-long voyage across the Atlantic. They had been a fascinating read, especially in light of our mission. Irene questioned their contents entirely. Sensationalizing in literature - even when ‘based upon a true story’ - is nothing new. Had she not met the man herself, Irene had declared, she would have assumed that the stories were entirely fictional, as many of our acquaintances in New York seemed to believe.

A knock at the door soon interrupted my work and my train of thought. I put aside my razor and hurried to answer it. To my surprise, I was greeted by a stern middle aged woman, with dark, greying hair up in a tidy bun.

“Mr. Drebber, is it?” she asked.

“I am he.”

“Welcome to Baker Street,” she said. “I am Mrs. Hudson, the landlady here. Is there anything you require?”

So this was the landlady Dr. Watson had mentioned in his stories. She was not the grandmotherly woman I had expected, but that said little. Irene had pointed out how little description there is of anyone in Dr. Watson’s accounts - aside from Mr. Holmes, that is.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I answered. “I’m doing fine for the moment, though I’m certain my wife, Victoria, will have a thousand questions for you - she adored ‘The Study in Scarlet’ and ‘The Sign of the Four.’ She just ran out to visit a friend of hers, but she should be back soon.”

Mrs. Hudson gave a curt nod. She spoke bluntly, but with a touch of humor, “Mr. Holmes has been getting more than his share of publicity of late.”

“He’s very well earned it, from what I’ve heard,” I remarked.

She smiled a little at that, but it didn’t last long. “Earned it or not, he’s a very private man and he would rather be left to solve his cases in peace and quiet” - it sounded almost exactly like he had been described in the stories. “With all the visitors we’ve gotten, it is probably for the best that he’s taking some time abroad at the moment, though who knows what he’s getting himself up to.”

“Brilliance rarely knows its own limits,” I said with a smile. I belatedly remembered that the sentiment could hardly apply to Mrs. Drebber, but under the circumstances, I could not help but sympathize with it.

“True.” She allowed herself a small smile in return. “I have work to attend to, but when your wife returns, you can tell her I may be able to answer a few questions.”

“Thank you, she would very much appreciate that.”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Hudson replied, and took her leave.

I returned to my work. There was little to be said about Mrs. Hudson from that encounter alone, or Mr. Holmes for that matter. All she had confirmed was a single trait. Dr. Watson could have changed any number of other details. And there could be many reasons for the detective’s love of privacy.

I managed to unpack a few more things before there was another knock at the door. I put away what I was holding with a sigh and returned to the door. This time, there was a young boy upon the threshold.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice betraying a hint of impatience.

“A letter for you, sir.” He handed me a simple envelope, addressed by typewriter.

“Thank you.” I handed him a coin for his troubles. Just as he was about to leave, I asked, “Who sent you?”

“Professor Moriarty, sir,” he said.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“And he says he hopes you’re liking the accommodations here,” the boy added.

“Very much,” I said. “Tell him we especially appreciate the location.”

The boy nodded and left.

I had hardly turned and left the entrance way when the door swung back open and Irene stepped inside. Her cheeks were flushed through her makeup.

“How was your visit?” I asked.

She closed the door behind her and answered with a grin, “Positively lovely! I was on my way home when I happened to spy that young messenger. I followed him and sure enough he led me back. What does our dear sponsor have to say?”

“I haven’t had a chance to read it,” I said.

“Open it then,” she exclaimed.

I tore the envelope open and pulled out the letter. Before I began to read it, I remarked, “Our landlady paid us a visit in your absence. She was a little reluctant, but she’s agreed to talk to Victoria and answer a few of her questions about the renowned Mr. Holmes.”

“How kind of her, I’ll have to take her up on it,” Irene said. “Now, what does it say?”

I glanced over the letter and had to do a double take. “It’s just a bunch of nonsense…”

“Let me see it.” Irene grabbed the letter out of my hands.

She stared at it for a moment, lifted it up to the window, and laid it flat against the table. She pulled out a matchbox from the folds of her dress, lit a match, and held the letter over it, just out of reach of the flame.

“Encrypted? Really?” she complained under her breath.

“Apparently,” I replied, though I knew she wasn’t asking for a response.

“I doubt it contains anything nearly salacious enough to warrant all this. He’s acting like a secret agent or an overzealous lover,” she said without looking away from the note.

Finally she blew out the flame and scribbled something down in the margins. “It’s just his address,” she explained with a shake of her head. “May I see the envelope?”

“Sure.” I handed it to her, though I had not the slightest idea why she wanted it.

She glanced at the address and added a time and a date to her notes.

“He expects us to visit the day after tomorrow at nine in the morning - it appears we’ll be joining him for breakfast,” she said at last.

“It’s kind of him to give us an opportunity to relax after such a long voyage,” I remarked with a touch of sarcasm.

Irene grinned. “I’m sorry, Godfrey, but I don’t think relaxation isn’t on the schedule.”

“Oh well. I can hope, can’t I?” I said with a smile

“Would you be amenable to bringing your hope to a meeting with the landlady?” Irene suggested.

“Of course.” I grabbed my coat.

“Then let us make haste,” she said and headed for the door. “I am quite taken with those stories of Dr. Watson’s, after all. I would not waste any time in asking their distinguished landlady about the detective.”

“Yes, and I am curious what she has to say.”

I followed Irene out the door and she led the way up to the famous flat, where we heard the landlady working.

She knocked once at the door and it swung open to reveal Mrs. Hudson moving about the cluttered sitting room, attempting to make some order out of the mess.

“It’s even more amazing than I imagined it!” Irene exclaimed, but her demeanor and even her voice were not her own. Instead, I was now in the company of Mrs. Victoria Drebber.

I exchanged an exasperated smile with the landlady and she waved us inside.

“Mr. Drebber told me you read-” Mrs. Hudson began to ask.

‘Victoria’ interrupted, overflowing with enthusiasm, “Yes! I adore them! I cannot wait to read the next one that Dr. Watson writes! When I heard he was writing again I forgave him immediately!”

“Forgave him for what?” Mrs. Hudson asked skeptically. “Do take a seat,” she added with a glance in my direction.

Victoria ignored the suggestion and remained standing, staring at everything with wide eyes. I knew somewhere in there, Irene was taking meticulous account of everything she saw, but I almost couldn’t believe it.

“Come on, dearest, you don’t need to stand.” I stepped over to her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She paid me no heed. “Can you believe it, Albert? We’re actually in the home of the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

“That we are. And you can even sit in his chair.” I led her to one of the chairs by the fireplace, hoping it was the right one, and sat myself in the other.

“My apologies,” I said to Mrs. Hudson.

“Not at all,” she replied before turning to Victoria - “I don’t mean to pry, but what did you mean about ‘forgiving’ Dr. Watson?”

“For leaving Mr. Holmes,” she replied, as if it were obvious.

Mrs. Hudson gave her a weary smile. “That’s what love will do to a man.”

“Still, Mr. Holmes must have been devastated!” Victoria exclaimed.

“Victoria,” I warned, “That’s a very personal question.”

“Don’t worry yourself about it,” Mrs. Hudson waved it off and answered Victoria, “He was, simple as that.”

“How could Dr. Watson end their partnership like that?” Victoria cried.

“They still solve cases together, every so often,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Though I doubt they’ve been able to see each other with Mr. Holmes in France. It is a shame, but life goes on.”

“Were they really such good friends, as in the books? They had to be! Weren’t they?” Victoria demanded.

“Let Mrs. Hudson answer,” I chided - part of me couldn’t help but cringe at the whole charade, but there was a reason for it.

The landlady chuckled. “They still are friends, Mr. Holmes doesn’t have any closer. As for Dr. Watson, well I’m sure he’s as social as any married man now, but that’s how it goes, isn’t it?”

“That’s so sad!” Victoria blurted out. “I wish Mr. Holmes were here now. I could tell him how much he means to all of us, Dr. Watson or none!”

“He really has no other friends, or acquaintances, even?” I asked quietly, remembering what Dr. Watson had said in his stories.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “It is a real shame. There are a few Inspectors with the Yard who call on him frequently enough, and there are those dirty boys who occasionally come by to deliver messages, but that’s all business.”

“What boys?” I asked, a sinking feeling in my chest.

She chuckled, unaware of the potential implications. “He calls them the ‘Baker Street Irregulars.’ They’re a motley bunch of street children - he pays them for information and that kind of thing. They make a right mess when they come through here, not that it’s ever clean to begin with. Anyway, they hardly count as friends.”

Victoria interrupted - it appeared she had gotten all the information that she needed from that line of questioning - “He must at least have a club he goes to, right? Like that place you go to in New York, Albert, or that Diogenes that his brother runs.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Not that I know of, at least. He only goes out for work, though I can occasionally convince him to take a constitutional when he’s had himself cooped up for too long.”

Victoria nodded and let her gaze wander, staring wide-eyed at everything around her.

“My apologies, but I must get to work.” Mrs. Hudson stood, and pushed herself to her feet. “It was good talking to you; it gets a bit lonely here without Mr. Holmes around.”

“Thank you so very much!” Victoria exclaimed, leaping to her feet once more.

They shook hands.

“Thank you,” I said, shaking Mrs. Hudson’s hand as well.

“You should join me for lunch tomorrow,” she said, leading us back out into the hall. “I doubt Mrs. Watson will mind the addition.”

“That would be marvelous!” Victoria replied with a glance in my direction.

“I believe we’ll be available,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Victoria and I went back downstairs and it was Irene who joined me in our flat. She paced back and forth in our sitting room around the bags we had yet to unpack, while I seated myself in the chair in the corner.

“Mrs. Hudson had quite a bit to say,” I remarked. “Your method was effective, though I’m not sure how much I like our Albert and Victoria…”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson must not like Mrs. Watson very much if she invited Victoria to join them,” Irene said with a wry smile. “You’re not the only one who loses patience with the dear, so she’ll have to undergo a little transformation when we meet with Mrs. Hudson next.” She rounded on me and teased, “You won’t have to change a bit; you’re perfect just as you are.”

“It helps that I don’t have much to do,” I replied.

“It is a shame that you’re not quite good enough at acting to play a proper role...” she trailed off, no doubt thinking about all the other roles she could have me play, if only I were her equal.

“I  _ was _ acting,” I insisted, “I would never marry your Victoria.”

Irene laughed, but her expression soon turned serious. “Did you notice?” she remarked. “Dr. Watson’s stories seem to line up almost perfectly with the reality, at least as far as Mrs. Hudson recounts it. Either he’s not hiding much, or she is.”

“Dr. Watson could be uninvolved,” I suggested, my insides squirming with what I was about to say. “What about those boys, the ‘Baker Street Irregulars,’ she called them?”

Irene frowned. “Dr. Watson mentioned them in his novels, but I would not have thought it of Mr. Holmes. To have some understanding with his biographer would be one thing, that would be another altogether.”


	3. Day 2

The next morning, I sat at breakfast alone. Irene had been out investigating all night and I wasn’t surprised that she had yet to return. I was a little worried, but such is my duty as her husband. It was a relief when a knock at the door interrupted my contemplative staring at the morning paper. Irene was back, and she bore the best news we could have hoped for under the circumstances - none at all.

She sat across from me at the table, unusually subdued as she nibbled at her breakfast.

Suddenly, she exclaimed, “I could swear I’ve talked to every boy on the streets of London! Not a single one had a word to say about Mr. Sherlock Holmes - beyond what is known by the general public and his willingness to pay for information.”

“That’s good,” I replied, though my enthusiasm quickly faded. “Do you think that settles it? It’s hard to believe they would have said anything even if...” I trailed off.

“You don’t know what I went so far as to say!” she said.

“I mean no offence, but I doubt I would like to know what you said.” I respected her art, but I was still a prudish Englishman somewhere deep down, with an ingrained sense of shame and even some remnants of propriety.

“No, you wouldn’t,” she replied simply. “Suffice to say, I’ve found all the ‘Baker Street Irregulars’ and not a single one...”

I nodded in understanding and swallowed a bit of egg before speaking, “Then, I’d consider that a success.”

“Perhaps…” she said, but only hesitantly. “In a case like this, it is very difficult to prove innocence, Godfrey.”

She stared off into the middle distance, concentrating on something that I couldn’t see as she took another bite of toast.

Finally she spoke again. “It’s time we talk to Mr. Mycroft Holmes. We need to know Mr. Holmes’s history.”

“What reason will Victoria and Albert Drebber have for visiting Mr. Holmes the elder?” I asked.

“They won’t,” she said. “He will instead be interviewed by Messrs Nathaniel Powell and Theodore Clapham, reporters for a little known magazine,  _ Accounts of Fact and Fiction _ .”

* * *

For a haven of recluses, the Diogenes Club was very richly decorated. The walls and furniture were all inlaid with ornate patterns and every surface was covered in plush material that was luxurious to the touch and absorbed any noise that dared trespass. It was like a silent maze, full of little nooks where men sat reading or in lost in meditation, all in their own little worlds.

Even though we had been told we could talk in the Stranger’s Room - a room like a study separated from the rest of the club for that very purpose - the whole place had the feeling of a library that demanded silence of a contemplative sort. So we exchanged not a word as we waited for Mr. Mycroft Holmes. We were both dressed in the simple clothes of newspaper men. Irene had taken on the guise of a young man to make use of her feminine features while I appeared significantly aged with greying hair.

Finally, a large, stout man came in. I could recognize him from Dr. Watson’s description. Through his massive face I perceived a glint of the sharpness of expression for which his younger brother was so well known, and he had a far-away, introspective look that gave him the air of someone at once utterly disconnected and highly perceptive.

I hastily stood to greet him.

“Mr. Mycroft Holmes, is it?” I asked with an outstretched hand.

He did not take it, but instead gave me an appraising nod and asked as though torn between boredom and bemusement, “What brings you here?”

“My name is Theodore Powell, this is my colleague, Mr. Nathaniel Clapham.” The words came tumbling out, but somehow I managed to make a coherent sentence out of it.

Irene jumped to her feet at the mention of her supposed name and stood at attention, her foot tapping nervously. An instant too late, I realized I had mixed up the first names, but I could not fix it now - the show had to go on.

“We’re reporters,” I explained, forcing myself to speak a little slower, “With  _ Accounts of Fact and Fiction _ \- it’s a magazine, you probably haven’t heard of it, it’s not too well known.”

Mr. Holmes the elder gave a slight smile. “Do take a seat, make yourselves comfortable.” With that, he seated himself in a nearby chair.

Mr. Clapham and I followed suit, returning to the chairs we had been in before.

“Now, what brings two reporters to the Diogenes Club?” He asked, a hint of joking condescension to his voice.

I took in a deep breath and continued, “We are following up on Dr. Watson’s latest publication, ‘A Scandal in Bohemia.’ Mr. Holmes the younger, we are aware, is away in France, but we were hoping that as his brother, you could give us some insight into his relationship with Miss Irene Adler.”

“You must have done quite a bit of research to find me,” he remarked.

“With all due respect,” Mr. Clapham spoke up, “We are reporters, sir.”

“Yes, of course. As to Miss Adler,” he continued, “I know only as much as the reading public and there is little else to know.” He turned to Mr. Clapham. “You of all people should be well aware of that.”

“Why I never!” Mr. Clapham exclaimed, utterly taken aback. “How do you reckon that?”

“Miss Adler, disguises can be fun - you and my brother both have a penchant for them - but do not take me for a fool.”

I glanced over at my companion and in an instant her features had transformed from that of the nervous Mr. Clapham to the confident Irene that I knew so well. Even without a change in costume, the transformation was visible.

“It’s Mrs. Norton, thank you,” she answered.

“My apologies. And I take it this is your oft forgotten husband, Mr. Norton.” He motioned towards me.

I nodded. “Mr. Godfrey Norton at your service.”

“I recommend you keep your legal practice, acting is not your calling,” he said to me, not unkindly.

“No, it is not,” I admitted.

He turned to Irene. “And the famed Mrs. Norton, we meet at last. You are as remarkable as I have heard, though it would have served you to do some research in advance.”

“I’m flattered,” she replied. “You have little reputation to speak of. One does not expect there to be another unknown Mr. Sherlock Holmes, brother or none.”

He waved off the suggestion. “His famed deduction is a mere hobby for me. Though we have agreed that I am the superior mind by seven years.”

“Modest, too,” she said with some irony.

“Perhaps,” he said, utterly indifferent to the description. “Now, what brings such an illustrious figure back to London, asking about her own relationship with Sherlock Holmes? And in such a hurry, at that.”

“A slightly less savory inquiry,” she answered.

He seemed to take the non-answer in stride. “I take it you are not here merely to sate your own curiosity. Who is your employer?”

“I’m sorry, that’s confidential,” she said.

“I see,” he said as though he expected nothing less. “Perhaps we may come to an arrangement; you wish to know about my brother and you have piqued my curiosity about your secretive employer.”

I chafed at his casually superior tone. My impatience won over my good sense and I spoke up, “I hate to interrupt, but whoever our employer may be, this is a serious matter.”

Mr. Holmes the elder turned on me with his sharp gaze and for a moment I hesitated, but resolve won over and I continued. “Are you aware of an organization of street boys under your brother’s employ, known as the ‘Baker Street Irregulars’?”

Mr. Holmes’ eyes narrowed as he puzzled through what I was implying. Suddenly he let out a barking laugh, his sizable head shaking from side to side in incredulous amusement.

It took him a moment before he was calm enough to reply seriously, “Your accusations on that count are utterly unwarranted.”

Irene opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand and she fell silent, waiting for him to continue.

“My brother may be many things, but he would do nothing of the sort. What he has actually done is for you to find out for yourselves, but there is no point in chasing down an empty alleyway.” His tone brooked no argument, and he changed topics as though his words settled it: “I am sure you are already aware of his close friendship with Dr. John Watson, a perfectly pleasant man whom I have had the chance to meet.”

“How close, would you say?” Irene asked, apparently content to let the matter rest.

“It should tell you something that he was introduced to me at all.”

She nodded.

“I recommend you also contact Mr. Victor Trevor,” he continued, “A very close friend of my brother’s while they knew each other. I believe he was the only friend Sherlock had at university. Mr. Trevor currently lives in Terai, in India, where I hear he is involved in tea planting.”

“Under what circumstances did they part?” she asked.

“If I recall correctly, Mr. Trevor was heartbroken after the death of his father. Though my brother solved the case, it was little consolation.”

“Are they still in communication?”

“No.”

Seemingly content with that line of questioning, Irene asked, “What interest do you have in aiding us against your brother?”

“Not against him; I have quite a bit of interest in clearing his name,” Mr. Holmes said lightly.

“Then why have you recommended we contact an old friend of his? For all you know Mr. Trevor could implicate him,” she insisted.

“Do you honestly expect him to say something incriminating, no matter what the truth is? Take it as a gesture of good faith toward future collaboration. And I admit I am curious about Mr. Trevor - I never had a chance to meet the man. When will you be seeing your employer next? Tomorrow?”

Irene nodded.

“If you would be so kind, I would appreciate it if you joined me for lunch the day after; I may have some more information for you. Until then, you can reach Mr. Trevor at this address-” he handed me a paper with a hastily scribbled address on it.

“Thank you,” Irene said and stood.

They briefly shook hands and we went on our way. Irene vanished and soon joined me as Victoria, though thankfully the bulk of her personality was her own. She called a cab and told the driver to take us back to Baker Street before settling in the back with me.

“Mr. Holmes the elder plainly believes that our employer has no case,” Irene remarked.

“So then he believes his brother is innocent? He could be biased,” I suggested, though something about the man made it hard to believe.

Irene shook her head in accordance with my thoughts. “He either has reason to believe that his brother is innocent, or believes that even if he is guilty, there’s not much risk of anything coming of it. Otherwise, he would have attempted to deter us from the investigation altogether.”

She paused for a moment in thought before exclaiming, “What I want to know is who he thinks we’re working for! Clearly he doesn’t think there’s any risk of our employer damaging his brother’s reputation, innocent or otherwise.”

“I don’t suppose that narrows it down at all?” I asked, not entirely hopeful.

“If our employer was hired by the Scotland Yard or some other official force, Mr. Holmes could easily be aware of how little progress has been made on the investigation,” she remarked. “But, the professor exerted quite a bit of effort to bring us in rather than rely on the force’s resources.”

“So then his interest is probably something less than… legal, or at least unconventional,” I suggested.

Irene nodded. “Or a very personal matter.”

“So the pursuit of justice is out?” I asked with a wry smile.

She smiled back. “Not entirely, but we should certainly consider other possibilities.” She paused to consider. “There’s always Mrs. Watson - there seems to be no woman interested in Holmes for our client to be attempting to deter-”

“He could be trying to impress  _ you _ ,” I put in.

“Oh” - she waved me off with a smile - “that’s ridiculous. This is serious, Godfrey.”

“You were never without suitors… But alright. You think he could be trying to implicate Dr. Watson to separate him from his wife?”

“That or hired by Mrs. Watson, though I would be surprised if we were brought all the way across the pond merely to investigate an unfaithful husband. Alternatively, our client could be out for revenge - I’m sure as a detective he’s made himself plenty of enemies - or he could be attempting to discredit Mr. Holmes prior to a trial or some such.” She continued with a stream of possibilities, “Maybe our employer has some  _ personal _ interest in Mr. Holmes, or he’s employed by a woman who does, but has suspicions of her own. Or perhaps the employer is Dr. Watson himself. If Mr. Holmes is as enigmatic as we’ve been lead to understand, he might be wanting a third opinion on an ambiguous relationship.”

“This sounds like something right out of a dime novel,” I declared.

Irene laughed.

I offered up, “What if he has heard that Mr. Holmes might be under investigation by the Yard and has employed us to preemptively find evidence against it? He did say he wanted our help in proving them innocent.”

“Then he must be a very foolish man indeed,” she said. “Innocence is hard to prove; our investigation can only dredge up more suspicions.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes before Irene spoke up once more, “We should write to Mr. Trevor today. It will be a matter of weeks before he receives our letter, let alone writes back.”

“What do you intend to say to him?” I asked.

“There seems to be a pattern,” she said in answering, though it really was nothing of the sort, “Mr. Holmes has one friend at a time, to which he is apparently very close.”

“So, then, what can Mr. Trevor tell us?” I pressed. “His own tendencies? I doubt he is so much a fool. You think he would admit if Mr. Holmes had made some advance toward him?”

Irene shook her head. “If it is as Mr. Holmes the elder says, I doubt he would purposefully incriminate his former companion. I suspect he may feel somewhat indebted to Mr. Holmes the younger - perhaps we could use that to our advantage.”

“You are a malicious woman,” I said, though my teasing smile did away with any weight the statement could have held.

The cab soon came to a stop back at the Baker Street flat. We were a little late for lunch with Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Watson, but a young woman who worked for the landlady greeted us at the door and led us down into Mrs. Hudson’s personal apartments. We passed through a cozy sitting room, into a small, well-kept dining room. There, we found Mrs. Hudson sitting across from a dainty young woman, who was modestly but fashionably dressed. Between them were several platters bearing all the makings for a lovely luncheon.

“My apologies for the delay,” I said as the ladies stopped mid-conversation and turned to face us.

“Don’t worry yourself about it,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “I’m glad you could join us.”

“Hello! It’s so nice to meet you!” Victoria exclaimed at Mrs. Watson.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Mrs. Watson said.

“Do have a seat,” Mrs. Hudson said kindly, motioning to a chair across from Mrs. Watson.

Victoria complied. I followed suit, taking the open chair at the foot of the table, out of the ladies’ way. For a moment, we all busied ourselves with filling our plates with light luncheon fare.

“So, what brings you and your husband to London?” Mrs. Watson asked.

“Vacation,” Victoria explained, “This is where we met and it’s been a long time since we’ve been back, hasn’t it dear?”

“Much too long,” I replied with a benign smile.

“What do you do for work?” Mrs. Hudson asked me - it seemed I could not escape the conversation so easily.

“A lawyer, though while I’m on vacation, I prefer not to think about it.” I chuckled.

“That’s a good philosophy,” Mrs. Watson remarked - I fancy I detected a hint of irony in her tone - “To work only when one is at work…”

“Yes,” Victoria replied with a smile at me, “It serves the both of us well.”

“How is Dr. Watson doing?” Mrs. Hudson asked, turning to Mrs. Watson.

“Well enough,” she replied, suddenly stiff.

“What’s it like,” Victoria exclaimed, ignoring the change in tone, “Being married to the famed Dr. Watson?”

Mrs. Watson sighed. “He’s lovely, really.” She smiled, but it didn’t last long. “He’s just a very busy man.”

“Doctors are always on call, aren’t they?” Victoria said with a kind smile, her tone greatly subdued.

“His practice must have expanded by quite a bit since Mr. Holmes left for France,” there was a hint of skepticism in Mrs. Hudson’s voice.

“He has also returned to writing,” Mrs. Watson explained with some reluctance.

“I uniquely adored ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’,” Victoria spoke up, “I have been dying to know what happened to Mr. Holmes and Miss Alder!”

Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Watson stopped short.

“Victoria,” I warned, and turned to the others, “My apologies, I don’t know what she was thinking.”

“I’m sorry, that was improper, wasn’t it…” Victoria said sheepishly.

“It’s alright,” Mrs. Hudson replied.

Mrs. Watson cracked a smile. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the only one who wants to know. We’ve even gotten visitors from a few low brow papers asking about Mr. Holmes’s relationship with Miss Adler.” She turned to Mrs. Hudson and asked, “Do you know if he has seen her since?”

“It’s Mrs. Norton now - she is a married woman, after all,” Mrs. Hudson said. “And despite what Dr. Watson may have insinuated, any interest Mr. Holmes may have had in her was purely professional.”

Mrs. Watson bristled at Mrs. Hudson’s words. “John knew there would be questions! With a woman like Mrs. Norton there is always speculation, he only wanted to preempt it and protect Mr. Holmes’s reputation.”

It is true, Irene is not a conventional woman by any means, and she had an adventurous youth, but that does not mean I was happy to sit by and listen to my dear wife being insulted right in front of me. I felt Irene’s hand on my arm, a reminder that I had to stay calm and in character.

“And Mrs. Norton’s marriage is not necessarily a happy one,” Mrs. Watson continued with the serious tone of someone speaking wisdom from experience. “All marriages have their difficulties, especially those formed hastily. Once the honeymoon is over, there are many things that may occupy a man, keeping him from his wife.”

“Does Dr. Watson still solve cases with Mr. Holmes?” Victoria asked delicately, but with an innocence that suggested she didn’t actually realize the implication that working with Mr. Holmes could have kept Dr. Watson from his wife.

“Not often, no,” Mrs. Hudson answered sadly.

Mrs. Watson’s lips twitched into a frown. “They exchange letters, but I can tell that it’s not the same,” she admitted. “I am almost sorry that Holmes is away in France.”

“It is a real shame,” Victoria put in.

“I suppose,” Mrs. Watson said, though she did not sound certain of it.

Victoria eagerly changed the topic, and they launched into an avid discussion of neighborhood gossip at an astounding rate. It was just ladies’ talk, so I let my mind wander. Eventually they all finished eating - I had little else to do, so I had long since cleaned my plate - and made to leave.

“Mrs. Drebber,” Mrs. Watson remarked, “I should be going, but would you and Mr. Drebber like to come over one evening for dinner with my husband and I?”

“You really mean it? I wouldn’t wish to impose, I know I’m just a reader, not a personal friend or anything,” Irene let the words tumble out in Victoria’s eager surprise.

“John would appreciate meeting someone so touched by his writing,” Mrs. Watson said.

“Thank you so much! Albert, what do you think?” Victoria glanced at me, her expression so hopeful, it was almost pleading.

I chuckled. “I would like to meet the famed Dr. Watson as well. I would be honored to accept your invitation.”

“It’s settled then, I’ll talk to John and send a note to confirm the day.” She gathered her things and stood. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson, thank you Mr. and Mrs. Drebber,” she said and took her leave.

Victoria and I began gathering our things to go as well.

“It was very kind of Mrs. Watson to invite us for dinner,” Victoria exclaimed.

“Yes, it was.” Mrs. Hudson gave a small smile.

We were just moving towards the door when she remarked, almost as though she had forgotten we were there, “I shouldn’t be so hard on the poor girl. Dr. Watson has been an excellent companion to Mr. Holmes, a difficult man who I must say has been in dire need of a friend, but I confess at times he seems a less than attentive husband.”

With a start, she seemed to remember our presence . “But I shouldn’t speculate. It was very nice lunching with you, but I ought to get back to work.”

“Oh, is there anything I can help you with?” Victoria asked.

“Don’t worry about it. Enjoy your vacation.” Mrs. Hudson showed us to the door.

“Thank you,” I said, and Victoria followed me out.

It was Irene who joined me in our flat. Despite her costume, she looked distinctly like herself as she strode inside and declared, “That settles it.”

“Mrs. Watson did have a lot to say - Mrs. Hudson too,” I acknowledged, though I did not bother to hide the uncertainty in my tone.

Irene gave me a skeptical look and explained, “I can now say with some confidence that Mrs. Watson neither hired our employer, nor is his client’s true aim. She is too loyal to her husband to hire someone to investigate him and has no suitors to speak of.”

“You powers of perception are remarkable as always,” I said.

“Yes, I was actually listening to the conversation,” she retorted with a smile.

“I heard some of it,” I protested a little.

“Really?” she challenged.

“Mrs. Watson appears to be in quite the situation,” I attempted. “Her husband is inattentive, it seems largely on account of Mr. Holmes. I would say that she has plenty of reason to have him investigated, if she were so inclined.”

“But she is not so inclined,” Irene insisted. “She is a very loyal woman; you heard her defend her husband when Mrs. Hudson criticized his introduction to ‘As Scandal in Bohemia’ - you were listening then, at least. And if such an investigation into Mr. Holmes bore fruit, even if it did not implicate her dear husband, it would devastate him. She knows how much Mr. Holmes means to her husband. She would not risk it.”

I nodded in assent.

“You also heard her fascinating little analysis of our own relationship,” Irene continued with a wry smile.

“Yes,” I answered with a frown.

“It’s not the first time,” Irene remarked. “When a lady is in so much distress that she cannot bear to address it directly, sometimes it is easier to discuss imagined flaws in another woman’s life. However, this is the first time I have heard anyone attempt to dissect our relationship without knowing my true identity.” She appeared amused by this peculiar development, rather than insulted. “Equally remarkable, I believe Mrs. Watson has elected to believe that there is some involvement between Mr. Holmes and myself rather than risk implicating her own husband.”

I frowned at the suggestion.

Irene waved it off. “It is a good thing we’ve been invited to join Mr. and Mrs. Watson for dinner, that simplifies things quite a bit. I was considering posing as a patient to get an opportunity to question the good doctor.”

“I must say, we’ve been very well received,” I acknowledged.

Irene gave a theatrical bow. “I try.”

“And it has paid off,” I said with a smile.

“Yes, it has. Now, we have a letter to write.” she declared, and headed to the study. I hastily followed.

* * *

A reprint of a letter from Mrs. Irene Norton to Mr. Victor Trevor:

Dear Mr. Victor Trevor,

My name is Irene Adler. I do not know if my reputation has traveled so far as India. If you have heard of me, it is likely as “ _ the _ woman” from Dr. John Watson’s account of “A Scandal in Bohemia.” To Dr. Watson’s credit, it is a much fictionalized account.

To put it simply, I am not a married woman, as the story - if you have read it - implies, though I hope soon to be: I am engaged to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, with whom I am deeply in love. It was he who told me about his friendship with you and how it so suddenly ended. My sincerest apologies for bringing back old memories that I know may be painful to you, but I am in desperate need of assistance and you are the only person who I can turn to for help.

I love Sherlock, about that there is no question, and I am sure he loves me. He is a wonderful man. I should be the happiest woman on earth, but I cannot help a nagging doubt that is festering in the back of my mind.

Just as you were his only friend in university, he now has Dr. John Watson, who is more than a mere biographer. They are the closest of friends and quite attached to one another. I find that Dr. Watson may be able to bring him more happiness than myself and I fear that to marry Sherlock and demand his affections above such a friend would be unpardonable. Yes, Dr. Watson is a married man himself, but his marriage seems to be less than happy for some of the same reasons that I have come to doubt my own engagement to my dear Sherlock.

In some respects, you must know my fiancé better than I. I know this is a very delicate matter and that is why I cannot ask anyone but you. Please return post as soon as possible with whatever advice you can give me; I am in a desperate situation and the last thing I wish to do is hurt my beloved Sherlock with my ignorance.

I thank you more than I can express.

Forever in your debt,

Miss Irene Adler


	4. Day 3

The next morning we met Professor Moriarty in his office. It was well kept and just shy of opulent, decorated with a few paintings and an abundance of curiosities and trinkets collected from a long life of study. The walls were lined with full bookshelves, bearing an eclectic assortment of tomes.

He greeted us at the door and ushered us into a pair of comfortable chairs in front of his desk. “So kind of you to join me. My apologies for the early hour, but I am a busy man.”

“Of course,” Irene replied with a dismissive wave. “Have you received any more information from your client or any of your other associates that may be of use to us?”

He shook his head. “The investigation is entirely in your hands. I see that you have not solved it, but you have not been idle. What have you uncovered thus far?”

“We have hardly scratched the surface,” Irene protested, a little too politely. “I’m afraid what we have so far will be of little use to you.”

“That is for me to determine,” Professor Moriarty said, and curtly settled the matter.

Still, Irene seemed to pause to consider for a moment before she acquiesced, “Very well. Dr. Watson’s depiction of Mr. Holmes seems to be largely accurate. Mr. Holmes appears to be a solitary man, with a limited collection of acquaintances who he meets with some frequency in the course of his work. He has a variety of clients from all walks of life - among them assorted constables and detectives - who visit him at varying intervals for consultations, but according to the landlady they only interact with Mr. Holmes as he pertains to their cases.

“As you suggested, we found that Dr. Watson is the only probable accomplice. He and Mr. Holmes were very close until the doctor’s marriage. As happens when a man marries, they have begun to see each other less frequently of late. It has not occurred rapidly enough for the taste of Mrs. Watson, whose husband still abandons her to aid Mr. Holmes with his work and is despondent in Mr. Holmes’s absence. However, all the evidence we can find is of a close friendship. We do not dare speculate about such a delicate matter.”

“I would have expected you to get a little farther in the time you have had, but this will have to do,” Professor Moriarty said.

“Pardon me,” Irene protested.

He ignored her. “You are invited to join me for tea in three days time. I hope that you will have resolved the matter by then.”

“That’s hardly enough time for a thorough investigation,” Irene exclaimed. “It takes time to build a rapport - I can only hear things that people are willing to say to me.”

“I am certain that you will find a way to manage.”

Irene stood and I followed her out the door, onto the street.

“He clearly has no time to spare,” Irene remarked as she led the way with a purposeful air in the opposite direction from what I had expected.

“He did seem rushed,” I acknowledged. “Do you have any thoughts as to why?”

She ignored my question. “Did you notice that painting in his office - of a woman with her head in her hands? You hardly could have missed it, we were nearly staring at it for the whole interview.”

I nodded.

“It’s a Greuze. He’s very fashionable these days - Marianne acquired one recently. It can’t have been cheap. I doubt he could afford it with his salary. That was the most glaring example, but the whole study spoke of barely disguised luxury. And think how he has spent money as though it was nothing in ensuring our services. I wonder...”

I waited for her to continue, but she would say no more on the matter.

Finally, I asked, “We have a whole day ahead of us, what now?”

It was still mid-morning; our talk with our enigmatic employer had not taken long.

“First,” Irene replied, “I believe an early lunch is in order. Then, I suggest we go and speak with Inspector Lestrade, which should give us some time before dinner.”

“You have a destination in mind?”

“But of course. It’s a lovely restaurant that just happens to fit the theme of our little vacation.” she said with a grin.

I gave her a wary glance, but her expression only said she was up to no good, which was no news to me. Thankfully, as we wound through the city, strolling alongside the great river Thames, it appeared that our destination had perfectly decent neighbors, at the very least. To my surprise, I found us nearing the grand residence of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria herself.

At last we came upon the Criterion. Embedded in the ornate stone facade were two wooden doors beneath a circular overhang bearing the restaurant’s name. Irene and I stepped into a rich, gilded dining hall, with a bar embedded into one wall between twin columns. A crowd of men of all ages stood about the tables, talking among themselves in a cacophonous buzz.

We passed deeper into the restaurant to find a table for two, where we could sit and eat as an innocuous pair of tourists. In the second hall, there were many others of our ilk, who had come to lunch amidst the extraordinary opulence of the British Empire. Perhaps they had been drawn there, as we had been, by its notoriety as the place where Dr. Watson met the friend who introduced him to Mr. Holmes.

As we waited at our table, I asked, “What do you expect to learn from the Inspector?”

“It is his job to notice criminal activities,” Irene replied wryly. “He may also be able to provide us with some insight into our mysterious employer.”

* * *

We approached the sturdy building of the Metropolitan Police Force, better known as Scotland Yard, again in the guise of two reporters. This time Irene had even given herself a shadow of stubble on her chin, and from the way she carried herself she looked like a wiry young man.

I fidgeted uncomfortably with my coarse suit. “Are you sure about this? If we’re caught sneaking around here in disguise-”

“Do you think they would hear us out if we came as ourselves? No, we won’t be caught,” Irene answered with an air of unshakable confidence, “So long as we play our parts. People are blind to that which they don’t expect to see. We dress as reporters, so why would we be anything but?”

I nodded in reply and let her take the lead; this time she was playing the more experienced reporter.

“Excuse me, sir,” Irene stopped one of the men on the stairs - presumably returning from lunch. She spoke in short, rough phrases, “Do you know where we can find Inspector Lestrade?”

“What do you need  _ him _ for?” the man replied, obviously in a sour mood.

“We’re reporters with  _ Accounts of Fact and Fiction _ ,” Irene answered without skipping a beat. “We have a few questions for him.”

A somewhat malicious smile crossed the man’s tired face and he led us inside. “Of course, right this way.”

“And your name is?” I piped up.

“Inspector Gregson at your service.” He took off his hat to us in a little bow.

Irene gave me an appreciative glance before turning back to the Inspector. “Inspector Gregson, you said? You’ve worked with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“On one or two cases,” he said evasively, “Inspector Lestrade has needed to call upon him many more times than I have over the years. I’m only barely acquainted with Mr. Holmes myself.”

Irene persisted, “What’s it’s like working with him?”

We followed Inspector Gregson down a busy corridor. At first his tone was awkward, but gradually he seemed to become more comfortable as he spoke, “He’s not the easiest man to work with, a bit full of himself, if you know what I mean, a bit of a showman, keeping his observations to himself until he can put it all together in one grand reveal. He likes the spotlight. But he does know his stuff,” he admitted reluctantly. “There’s not a man in the Yard - not a man who’s worked with him that is - who wouldn’t mind taking him down a peg if he had the chance.”

“Still,” Gregson continued as we stopped at an office door, “I can’t deny that he’s a good man to have on call. He’s helpful in a pinch, if he feels like it.”

With that, Inspector Gregson knocked at the door.

A man who must have been Inspector Lestrade answered through the door, “Come in.”

Gregson pulled the door open and waved us inside with a smile. “Reporters; they’ve got a few questions for you.”

Inspector Lestrade shot his colleague a glare before letting out a sigh. “Very well, I don’t have much time, but go ahead- ask away.”

Inspector Gregson hastily excused himself and left us with Inspector Lestrade behind the closed office door.

“So what’s this all about?” Inspector Lestrade asked, already impatient.

“I’m Nathaniel Clapham,” Irene explained, with a gruff, yet casual air that made her seem larger somehow, “And this is my associate, Mr. Theodore Powell - please excuse him, he’s a bit new to the business. We’re with  _ Accounts of Fact and Fiction _ -”

Inspector Lestrade grumbled in response.

‘Mr. Clapham’ ignored him and forged on; “We’re aware of your connection to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. What’s it like working with the consulting detective of literary fame?”

“Mr. Holmes is away, last I heard in France,” Inspector Lestrade answered a tad sharply. “It’s been weeks since anyone here has seen him.”

“But you’ve worked with him before,” Mr. Clapham insisted. “How far back have you known him?”

Inspector Lestrade resigned himself to answering her questions and forced himself to think back. “It’s been what? Over ten years now? Dr. Watson asked me the same thing a couple years back for his writing - trying to reconstruct Mr. Holmes’ history, I think. I couldn’t tell him either, not even after he suggested a few years.”

“What years did he give you?” Mr. Clapham pressed.

“Lets see… Well, he met Mr. Holmes in ‘81, and of course his own marriage to Mrs. Watson in ‘88, that’s all I remember. You’d have to ask Dr. Watson himself for more details. I honestly don’t know why you’re coming to me. Dr. Watson lived with Mr. Holmes; if you want information on him, Dr. Watson is the man to ask. Though, now that I think of it, I haven’t seen Dr. Watson around in a while. He is a married man now. I hear he even has his own medical practice.”

“But you knew Mr. Holmes before he met Dr. Watson?” Mr. Clapham asked.

The inspector nodded. “That’s how I know it’s been a long time.”

“What do you know about his history?”

Inspector Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. “I’ve only worked with him, asked him to help out with the finer points on a few cases, that’s all. He’s not a very communicative man when it doesn’t suit him, and all he likes talking about is how we’re wrong and he’s right.”

“What was he like when you met him?”

The inspector thought back again. “He was a young man, not long out of university, as far as I could tell. Said he’d solved a few cases before and thought he could help with one I was working on at the time. I was a rookie and the case was a real doozy - it’d been months and no leads. He solved it in a matter of days. Didn’t ask much pay, just that we remember him next time we were having trouble with a case, said it’d save us both some trouble - according to him a lot of the evidence had gone dry while we’d been trying to sort it out,” Inspector Lestrade concluded with a scoff at the amateur’s arrogance.

“According to Dr. Watson’s account, Mr. Holmes is and has always been a largely friendless man. Can you attest to that?”

“As I said before, I’m not a personal friend of the man, I just know him through business. For a little while there - before Dr. Watson showed up - as far as I could tell I was his only connection, but even then, I didn’t see him much. He could have been an extraordinarily social man, and I wouldn’t have known the half of it. I wouldn’t know now.”

Mr. Clapham refused to let him get out of answering that easily. “But you’re a man of the Yard; you’re used to making quick judgements about people and figuring out a lot from a little. Detectives and reporters are alike in that sense. Do you think he was an ‘extraordinarily social man’?”

Inspector Lestrade hesitated before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. As I said, far as I could tell, Mr. Holmes hasn’t had any friends aside from Dr. Watson for all the time I’ve known him, and now even they don’t seem so close any more. It happens when a man gets married.”

“What about Mr. Holmes?” I put in. “Has he had any suitors?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Mr. Holmes has never seemed the type for marrying,” Inspector Lestrade said with half a smile.

“What about Irene Adler?” Mr. Clapham suggested.

Inspector Lestrade let out a sharp laugh. “I doubt it, though, I assure you, you’re not the first to ask.”

“Why not?” Mr. Clapham insisted.

“I’ve never seen him so much as look at a woman if it wasn’t for a case,” Inspector Lestrade said, “and I can’t imagine he’d find one who would put up with him. I can hardly fathom why Dr. Watson puts up with him.”

“Why does someone as brilliant as Mr. Holmes put up with Dr. Watson?” Mr. Clapham asked.

“Dr. Watson has the patience of a saint,” the inspector began, until he abruptly realized he was answering the wrong question. Instead he shrugged and said, “Maybe Dr. Watson is just the only one who will put up with him. And the doctor does admire him; Mr. Holmes is never one to shy away from applause. Not that he doesn’t care for Dr. Watson, that is - he does, more than he cares for any of the rest of us, at least.”

“But you couldn’t say why?” Mr. Clapham pressed.

Inspector Lestrade hesitated. “There’s no use in speculating.”

“Speculation from a detective-” Mr. Clapham began.

“Excuse me,” Inspector Lestrade interrupted, “It’s getting late, and I’ve got work to do. If you’ve got no further questions-”

“Just one more,” Mr. Clapham said. “Is Mr. Holmes truly the world’s only consulting detective, or are there other consultants who compete with him for the Yard’s ear?”

“Our own men are usually sufficient,” the inspector said. “We don’t make a habit of bringing in outside ‘experts.’”

“Of course,” Mr. Clapham said. “But you must get a lot of difficult cases. If Mr. Holmes isn’t available or-”

Inspector Lestrade shook his head. “Despite what Mr. Holmes may believe, we’re perfectly capable of taking care of things without him - or anyone else’s help.”

“That’s all, thank you.” Mr. Clapham stood to leave with a shallow bow.

“Yes, thank you very much,” I said, and hastily followed after.


	5. Day 4

We left Baker Street just before noon the next day and arrived at the Diogenes Club with a few minutes to spare. Before long Mr. Holmes the elder joined us in the Stranger’s Room. An elaborate luncheon was brought in shortly after.

Irene wasted little time on the food, instead focusing on our host. “You said you had more to tell us, something to clear your brother's name."

Mr. Holmes chuckled. “You must be full of questions,” he said as though he was humoring us. “Ask away.”

“You suggested we contact Mr. Victor Trevor. Is there anything else you can tell us of your brother’s history?” Irene asked.

“There is little more to say,” Mr. Holmes said. He took his time before continuing. “As you have no doubt heard from many others before me, he is little more sociable than I am. The one exception is his tendency to make a single close connection, but I have only known of Mr. Trevor and Dr. Watson.”

“What of relations with women?” Irene pressed.

“Absent, as are mine.” He gave her a pointed look, as though challenging her to make something of it.

“Is it then true that he scorns the softer passions?” she asked.

“That appears to be Dr. Watson’s conclusion,” he answered noncommittally.

Irene changed track. “What do you make of Dr. Watson?” 

“He is a rather ordinary fellow,” Mr. Holmes said. “My brother would not say so, but it is the truth. He is of average intelligence, but well educated and efficient under pressure - his military training still serves him well. He is not particularly patient, as many would suggest, he merely avoids conflict on principle and instead allows discontentment to build up until he can no longer bring himself to contain it.”

“What does your brother see in him?” Irene asked.

“A rare and valued friend,” Mr. Holmes answered simply.

“But why Dr. Watson?” she insisted.

“Perhaps it is merely because he is there. He does see the best in my brother, as few others do - maybe it is something for Sherlock to aspire to.”

“And what of Mr. Trevor?” Irene asked.

“I never met the man and my brother prefers not to speak of him after they parted under such unfortunate circumstances. All I have gathered is that he was an energetic, passionate man, who lent Sherlock some of his sense of humor, and that they were both largely friendless aside from the other.”

After a moment’s pause, Mr. Holmes asked, “Do you have any further questions?”

Irene considered for a minute or two before finally giving a reluctant shake of her head.

“It is just as well,” Mr. Holmes said with a small smile. “There is little more I have to say. I imagine you may have better luck speaking with Dr. Watson himself. Now,” he turned to his true aim with relish, “What do you make of your employer?”

Irene finally took a bite of food. When she was done, she answered, “He does well enough for himself, but as he says it, he is but an intermediary, hired to put his considerable resources to work solving his client’s little puzzle.”

“What of his client, then?” Mr. Holmes corrected himself, sounding a tad impatient.

Irene took another bite and then said, “He is not interested in Mrs. Watson, nor was our employer called upon by the woman herself. We have also confirmed that his client is not a man of the Yard.”

Mr. Holmes frowned. “What are your employer’s ‘considerable resources?’”

“He claims a wide net of acquaintances from all walks of life who he can call upon at will,” Irene said.

“And what is his own walk of life?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“Academic,” Irene answered.

Mr. Holmes nodded as though that was what he had expected. “I would advise you look a little deeper into your enigmatic employer, though I would tread carefully.”

With that, we were dismissed.

* * *

That evening we dined with the Watsons in the guise of Mr. and Mrs. Drebber. Dr. and Mrs. Watson lived in a pleasant little house that also served as the doctor’s practice. A clumsy young maid welcomed us inside, took my coat, and led us into the sitting room where Mrs. Watson was waiting. The lady of the house hastily put her embroidery aside as we entered and greeted us warmly.

“John is still out tending to a patient,” she explained, “But he should be home soon, and then dinner will be served.”

In the meantime, we joined Mrs. Watson in the sitting room.

“Thank you so very much for inviting us,” Irene exclaimed, back in the character of Victoria Drebber. It seemed as though she could not keep still from all the excitement.

“Not at all,” Mrs. Watson said.

“How has Dr. Watson been?” Victoria asked.

“He keeps himself busy,” Mrs. Watson answered with an unhappy undercurrent. Her voice cleared as she asked, “And how have you been? Are you enjoying being back in London?”

“Very much so! I had nearly forgotten how lovely the gardens are. We have Central Park in New York, but it’s just not the same.”

Mrs. Watson smiled a little at that. “There’s one right outside our door and we don’t go nearly often enough.”

“You really should,” Victoria said.

I was content to leave the ladies to their conversation. Dr. Watson soon arrived, out of breath and worn from a day’s work.

“My apologies,” he said as he stepped into the sitting room. “Please forgive me another moment and then I will be ready to join you for dinner. Certainly do not delay on my account.”

So, we went to the dining room. We were nearly finished with the first course when Dr. Watson joined us at the table having changed and freshened up.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Victoria exclaimed.

“The pleasure is all mine.” He shook my hand and greeted Victoria with a nod. “I could have sworn I recognized you from somewhere, Mrs. Drebber. When did you leave for America?”

Victoria paused a moment in thought. “Has it been three years already?”

“I would say so,” I answered, attempting with difficulty to hide a smile. I would have hoped Irene remembered how long we had been married.

Dr. Watson seemed to consider a moment before shaking the thought away. “How has your time in London been?”

“It’s been wonderful!” Victoria said. “It’s been a treat being back. I have forgotten how much I missed lovely old London. Mrs. Hudson has been wonderful, and it was very kind of you to invite us for dinner!”

“Not at all,” Dr. Watson waved it off.

“I adored your accounts of your adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It is truly an honor to meet you in person,” Victoria continued eagerly.

“I am flattered to meet such an admirer,” Dr. Watson said. “But I am merely the biographer, it is Holmes who makes all of his incredible deductions and solves all the cases.” He seemed to glow as he spoke about his former flatmate.

“What was it like working with Mr. Holmes?” Victoria asked.

“He is truly incredible,” Dr. Watson answered. “A brilliant man. I was very lucky to watch his work and be privy to his thoughts - to the extent that he gave them to me. I have never met his equal.”

As her husband spoke, I watched Mrs. Watson’s face fall. When she remembered to smile, it was forced.

“What of Miss Irene Adler?” Victoria put in with perfect innocence. “She bested Mr. Holmes, didn’t she? Do you think he’s seen her since?”

Watson frowned a little. “I don’t believe so, no.”

Victoria’s face fell. “That’s so sad.”

“I’m afraid my words have caused more speculation than they have quelled.” Dr. Watson explained firmly, “I meant what I wrote in the introduction to ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’; Miss Adler was no more than a curiosity to him, remarkable only in her abilities - especially uncommon as they are in a woman. He has had no personal interest in women for as long as I have known him. He finds romance as relevant to himself as the solar system, and harmful to his intellectual capabilities besides.” I could not tell if I had detected or imagined a hint of bitterness in the doctor’s tone.

* * *

After dinner, I joined Dr. Watson in his study while Irene stayed with Mrs. Watson in the sitting room. We spoke of business for a little while, but a doctor and a lawyer only have so much in common, and so we easily turned back to the topic of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Dr. Watson had just finished recounting one of his unpublished adventures with Mr. Holmes when he remarked with a wistful air, “He really is brilliant. I love Mary more than anything, but it’s easy to miss the thrill of adventure when one is safe and comfortable at home.”

“Mr. Holmes is a rather eccentric man, isn’t he?” I asked as idly as I could.

Dr. Watson narrowed his eyes at first and I was about to backpedal, but he seemed to accept my awkward question. “He was madness to live with, if that’s what you mean to ask. Perhaps it was on account of his great intelligence, but he was very unusual in his habits and had difficulty taking the rest of us seriously.”

I let out a laugh before I could stop myself. Dr. Watson looked at me in surprise and I hastily explained, “My dear Victoria can be a little sharper than she seems, in some ways at least. Somehow she never ceases to be amazed that what comes easily to her does not come so easily to the rest of us.”

Dr. Watson chuckled at that. “Holmes is the same. He was always incredulous about all the things I failed to deduce,” he said with fond exasperation.

“You have been seeing less of him of late?” I asked.

Dr. Watson nodded sadly. “Last I have heard, he is in Paris, but he could be halfway around the world and I wouldn’t know it. I can only hope he doesn’t run into something he can’t handle, but in his line of work…” he trailed off.

I nodded along. Even though I had followed Irene back to London, there was so little I could actually do if she ran into trouble, and the most serious parts of the investigation she undertook alone. “When you’re so much cleverer than everyone else around you, it is easy to forget that you are not invincible,” I remarked.

“And if someone else dares show concern or suggest that he is not invincible...” Dr. Watson trailed off, letting his tone imply how Mr. Holmes might respond. “At least Mrs. Drebber does not seem too proud.”

Irene has her pride, of course, but I knew better than to say anything to that effect. Instead, I said as naturally as I could, “It is a shame Mr. Holmes has no wife to look out for him.”

Dr. Watson seemed taken aback for an instant, and then he gave a dark chuckle. “Sometimes I wish he did, but it is probably for the best that he has no woman to torment. He can be charming enough when he wishes to be, but he would drive a woman to madness with his moods. I don’t know how Mrs. Hudson stands him as a tenant.”

We talked a little while longer, and then we rejoined the ladies in the parlor. As Irene and I were about to depart for the evening and were saying our farewells to the Watsons, Dr. Watson suddenly spoke up; “May I have a word with Mrs. Drebber? I assure you it won’t be long.”

I glanced over at Irene and she nodded her approval s.

So, I answered, “We are in no hurry.”

Irene followed Dr. Watson back into his study. 

* * *

Later that evening, Irene and I conferred back in our Baker Street flat. First she insisted I recount my time with Dr. Watson, and then she detailed to me the relevant portions of her conversation with Mrs. Watson:

“It took some getting around to, of course. One plainly does not get in her good graces by speaking of Mr. Holmes. However, she has much cause for complaint and few people to complain to, so once I worked around to the topic she answered easily enough.

“I believe I asked with all of our dear little Victoria’s tact, ‘You’ve worked with Mr. Sherlock Holmes too, haven’t you? What did you make of him?’

“Mrs. Watson frowned at that and said, ‘He was kind enough, I suppose. My interaction with him was solely professional and for his part he appeared rather immersed in the case. Though he was not so consumed that he could not flaunt his renowned abilities.’

“If you recall from Dr. Watson’s account of the case - you did read it on the boat over, didn’t you Godfrey? - Mr. Holmes appeared to be even more intent on showing off his abilities than usual, which Mrs. Watson corroborated. One can only speculate about his reasons for doing so. I tried to hone in on the matter by asking, ‘What was it like seeing Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson working together?’

“Mrs. Watson answered, ‘I would hesitate to call it working together. Mr. Holmes does not treat John as an equal and at times he is even harsh. I know John admires him so, but as his wife it is difficult to see them together.’

“Given what we already know, I can only imagine she finds it difficult to see her husband interacting with Mr. Holmes not only on account of Mr. Holmes’s behavior, but also because of her husband’s regard for him. I pushed a little more on that point - ‘Is Mr. Holmes never kind to Dr. Watson?’

“She answered, ‘It’s difficult to tell. John seems rarely to mind, but even when he is being kind there is some condescension to it, or he’s trying to make some sort of point. Often I find him looking at John with that judgemental look of his. But the way John speaks of him, there is no better person in the world.’

“I was not going to get any farther with that line of questioning, so I asked, ‘Have you seen Mr. Holmes since you married Dr. Watson?’

“She answered, ‘From time to time, but I believe we both prefer to see as little of each other as we can. Ever since John and I were engaged, Mr. Holmes has behaved strangely around me. I can’t quite place it, but I can tell that he is uncomfortable, and I have a strong feeling that he dislikes me. John has said he has no interest in women outside the cases they bring. I don’t know if there is anything more to it than that, but sometimes it seems his glare is aimed particularly at me.’

“I tried a few other questions, but that is about all I was able to gather,” Irene concluded.

“And what about your word with Dr. Watson?” I attempted once more.

Finally, she capitulated with a wry smile, and recounted their conversation:

“He was plainly distressed,” she said, “Once we were in his study, he hesitated for a long while before he asked, ‘Miss Adler? What are you doing here asking after Holmes?’ He did not bother to hide his concern or fear, though he also attempted to loom over me like he was trying to be intimidating.”

“I am afraid to say,” Irene continued, “That his deduction startled me after everything we have heard about the man. Dr. Watson has plainly learned more from his acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes than he lets on.”

At that I confessed, “That may be my doing as much as Dr. Watson’s. I let on more about your identity than I had intended.”

“What is done is done,” Irene said and resumed her tale: “One look at Dr. Watson and I could tell that he wasn’t going to be convinced that he was mistaken, so I did the only other thing I could do and said, ‘It’s Mrs. Norton, thank you.’

“He was hardly deterred. He demanded, ‘What do you want with Holmes?’

“I deflected, ‘You must be aware that his abilities have won him many admirers. Why could I not be among them?’

“He had none of it. ‘If I am correct, your aim is not one to be taken lightly. Holmes holds nothing against you - why do you seek to ruin him?’

“I answered, ‘I seek nothing of the sort.’

“He demanded, ‘Then what are you after with such an inquiry?’

“‘Merely the truth,’ I said lightly.

“‘And what have you found?’ He asked the question carefully. For all my attention, I could not tell whether he meant it as a challenge, a desperate plea, or an honest inquiry.

“So, I answered honestly, ‘Little of note. Mr. Holmes is a man of few friends - you chief among them - and he has little regard for women. He easily lends himself to speculation, but there is little indication of whether it is founded. Now, I have a question of my own for you: who might have such an interest in ruining Mr. Holmes?’

“Dr. Watson answered, ‘It would be impossible not to make enemies in his line of work.’

“I pressed, ‘Is there anyone of particular note?’

“He cut straight to the point - subtlety is hardly his forte, but he used his bluntness to his advantage - ‘What are you after?’

“I explained as little as would suffice, ‘There is someone of considerable means who is after Mr. Holmes. I may have some hint as to his identity.’

“At last, Dr. Watson paused to consider my question. Finally, he suggested with some reluctance, ‘There is a blackmailer that Holmes has run afoul of in the past: Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton.’”


	6. Days 5 and 6

Irene outright refused to allow me to accompany her on her visit to Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton. I had heard the name even before she recounted her conversation with Dr. Watson. Irene has encountered Mr. Milverton on several occasions over the years. Luckily she was of much less interest to the blackmailer than the men he threatened to expose for courting her.

Irene returned to the flat not long before lunch unscathed, if a little shaken by the brief encounter.

“He’s an evil man!” she exclaimed as soon as the door had closed behind her.

“How did it go?” I asked warily.

She sat down at the table across from me and related:

“He lives in a grand estate - a warning to his victims that he knows his business and carries it out. The grounds are guarded by a ferocious beast of a dog to further intimidate any who would dare trespass. I have heard it roams freely at night, but as I was there on ‘legitimate’ business, all it did was snarl at me as I passed. A young maid met me at the door and led me up to an immaculate office, overseen by his secretary - a tall, thin man, with an almost vulture-like face. He bade me wait for his master, and so I obliged and took a seat.

“He didn’t make me wait long, just long enough to remind me that I was in his domain at his leisure. He greeted me with a cold, gloating smile that did not reach his hard, dark eyes, and wide open arms, as though to engulf me and devour all my secrets.

“He led me into his study. Once we were inside, he asked, 'And to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you finally seen reason? You owe nothing to any of them.’

“I held up a hand to quiet him and he eventually obliged - in his own time of course. Once he had, I clarified, ‘I am not here to sell, but to buy.’

“He gave me an indulgent, almost skeptical smile and said, ‘An exchange perhaps?’

“I cut to the chase, ‘Is Professor James Moriarty in your employ?’

“He let out a mirthless laugh before answering, 'If only I had such a man under my power. What interest do you have in him? Or should I say what interest has he taken in you?’

“I took a gamble; ‘What do you know of the relationship between Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?’

“A wide grin spread across his face. ‘What do you have?’

“I told him the truth - 'Nothing.’

“‘That is a shame,’ he said. 'I would pay you handsomely for your evidence.’

“He had nothing more to tell me. He plainly knows something of our employer, but I could get no word out of him,” Irene concluded

“At least now you know another thing that the professor isn’t,” I put in, though I don’t know how helpful it was.

“It’s time we discovered what he actually is,” she declared.

We ate a hurried luncheon and then Irene took her leave in the guise of a roguish young man. I did not see her again until after lunch the next day.

I had just sat down with a book I had been meaning to read when I heard a knock at the door. It took me a long moment to remember that the rough man I was looking at was in fact my dear Irene. I ushered her inside and she ducked into the washroom to clean herself up.

Once she was back in the guise of Mrs. Victoria Drebber, I joined her at the table for a belated meal. She declared between bites of food, “Well, our employer is certainly not a mere professor.”

“What is he?” I asked.

Her eager expression faltered a little. “Perhaps you will be able to put a name to it. In truth, there is nothing of substance to connect him to any misdeed. In the day that I observed him, he took no step out of line. The only thing of any interest that occurred was a dinner party where he played the host, and even that in and of itself was nothing out of the ordinary. I could not get so close as to overhear anything, but his guests appeared to be all respectable members of society.

“However, I was able to trail a few of them afterwards. They all returned to their abodes, but one man did not go straight to bed and instead went up to his study. He soon called a messenger boy who tried very hard to lose me. I spent half the night chasing him across the city until at last he arrived somewhere of rather less repute where several rough looking fellows had gathered in the middle of the night to receive his message. From there, they scattered throughout the city. I followed one to a house full of all manner of goods, presumably stolen or otherwise illegally trafficked. Another met with several other ruffians, perhaps to pass the message on,” she concluded.

In my line of work, I have occasionally encountered a man who manipulates his legitimately earned wealth to acquire more through less honest means. I had assumed Professor Moriarty was such a man who relied on relatively discrete dishonesty. However, Irene's findings indicated something much more sinister. “It's like the Mafia in New York,” I exclaimed in surprise. “Do you think he’s the leader of this criminal organization?”

“I doubt he answers to any other,” Irene said. “You saw his impatience with us.”

“Is he after Mr. Sherlock Holmes for revenge?” I asked. “If so, then it has taken a rather peculiar form.”

She shook her head. “No, I suspect Mr. Holmes is a more immediate threat to his operation. That would explain the lengths to which he went in order to procure our assistance, and I suspect that the terms of our investigation are but a distraction to disguise the true cause.”

She saw my confusion and explained, “It’s like my disguises; he has us ask one question when he’s truly after something else that he knows will come out of the answer. Mr. Holmes is in Paris; he knows we couldn’t find enough proof of anything to ruin Mr. Holmes’s reputation in one fell swoop. Instead he is after Dr. Watson - you have seen how he repeatedly points us in the doctor’s direction as the only viable accomplice. And with clear reason; if you were at odds with Mr. Holmes you would no doubt wish to know whether this simple doctor - the detective’s sole companion - could be a weakness to exploit or a threat that must be gotten out of the way. _ That _ is what Professor Moriarty is truly after.”

“So, shall we return to the Yard?” I asked urgently.

Irene hesitated. “I am afraid we have underestimated our employer. He is a dangerous man to cross.”

I was about to protest when a knock sounded at the door. I confess my heart nearly leaped out of my chest and I froze in fear that one of Professor Moriarty’s men had somehow traced Irene back to the flat.

“It must be Mrs. Hudson with those lovely biscuits of hers,” Irene exclaimed, having somehow easily fallen back into the guise of the wide-eyed Mrs. Victoria Drebber.

She urged me towards the door and I tried to quell the pounding of my heart as I obeyed as though through no conscious will of my own. I opened it.

I was not greeted by Mrs. Hudson’s smiling face. Instead there was a lanky young man with sharp features and an easy confidence about him. He was not quite intimidating, but I could see he easily could have been if he tried. He was dressed well, like a footman in a moderately wealthy household.

“Professor Moriarty invites Mrs. Irene Norton to accompany him for tea,” he announced.

Irene had come up behind me and now joined me at the door to see our visitor for herself.

She slipped in front of me and answered, “I am afraid we have little news to share.”

“Professor Moriarty insists upon your presence.” The man's expression grew hard and there was a challenge in his eyes.

Irene took her time answering. The man was beginning to look impatient when, to my surprise, Irene acquiesced, “Very well. Then I accept his gracious invitation.”

“A coach is waiting,” the man said and waved her outside.

Before I quite knew what I was doing I jumped between them and exclaimed, “I will accompany her!”

She turned back toward me and gave me a pleading look before she said with cold impatience, “You’ll just get in the way.” Then she turned away to follow Professor Moriarty's man.

I drew myself up to full height and squared my shoulders. “She goes with me or not at all.”

Irene shot me another pleading glance over her shoulder and then continued after the man without another word. I followed her and we all stepped into the cab in silence.

* * *

We were ushered into Professor Moriarty’s study immediately upon our arrival. We passed between two of his men who guarded the solid, dark wooden doors, and opened them to let us inside. The professor was already seated behind his grand mahogany desk in expectation of our arrival.

He greeted Irene with a terse smile and bade her make herself comfortable. He hardly paused to look at me, but I confess my legs were unsteady as I hurriedly claimed a small chair in the corner of the room. Meanwhile, Irene sat front and center in a wooden throne, lined with plush cushions. She sat tall and bore our host’s full attention with ease and grace.

Our guide left as we settled ourselves and the doors shut behind him, leaving us alone with Professor Moriarty. I sat frozen in place, torn between making myself as small as possible as not to draw the professor’s ire - or ruin whatever plan Irene may have formed - and jumping out of my seat to defend my Irene from whatever plan this dastardly professor had devised. The result of my uncertainty was inaction, but I swore to myself that if Irene betrayed any distress I would leap to her aid like any true gentleman.

I hardly noticed the doors opening to allow a maid to enter, bearing tea and pastries, until she was directly in front of me, offering me a cup that I did not dare touch. Irene accepted her cup graciously, with a nod to the maid, and sipped at her tea as though we were among friends. Even Professor Moriarty took a cursory sip or two. But the pastries went uneaten.

Once the maid was gone Professor Moriarty spoke with a hint of irony, “I am afraid that I overestimated your ability to do what was asked of you without succumbing to distraction. However, I now realize the fault was my own in leaving you with another mystery which you could not help but pursue.” His tone turned serious as he continued, “Now that it has been satisfactorily solved, I expect you will resume the investigation which you were hired to complete.” Though his words held no threat, there was something in his tone that suggested the consequences for failure would be dire.

“I fear we may be unable to complete the task which you have set for us,” Irene said lightly, but she was more serious than she had been for most of our little investigation.

Professor Moriarty looked at her for a moment with an appraising eye. Finally, he said, “I see I must leave no room for misinterpretation or you will use it to feign ignorance of my true meaning. I have hired you to use whatever it was that enabled you to best Mr. Sherlock Holmes once to do so again. First, I expect you to complete your investigation into what remains of the relationship between Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. If I find your performance to be satisfactory further tasks will follow. Of course, you will be rewarded handsomely for everything you do in my service.” His tone took a sharp dive as he continued to say, “However, for treachery there is only one recourse. Do we have an understanding?”

“I am afraid you have overestimated my powers,” Irene answered. “I would be of little use to you, and likewise know better than to challenge you as Mr. Holmes has done.”

“I advise you reconsider,” Professor Moriarty insisted. “You have little to gain from fleeing and much from cooperating.”

Irene held fast. “I must regretfully decline.”

With that she stood, curtsied at our host and bid him good day. She did not spare a glance at me as she went. I stood belatedly and hastily followed her out the door.

Professor Moriarty watched us leave with a frown. As we stepped out of the study, I expected the men guarding the door to stop us, but they did not move and so we were allowed to pass. We made it out onto the street and hailed a cab back to the flat. Irene sat stiffly beside me and did not say a word until we were behind locked doors.

Only then did she collapse upon the couch in our sitting room. “I fear he will never let us out of his sight! You saw the man following our cab - he didn’t even attempt to hide.”

“What can we do?” I asked.

“We must return to New York, there at least we may be safe,” Irene said.

We were dogged by Professor Moriarty’s men until we stepped off the boat a week later. Even with an ocean between us and the professor, there were still times Irene would seem to notice something out of the corner of her eye that put her ill at ease until we were safely home or in the company of friends. Only when the news arrived that Professor James Moriarty and Mr. Sherlock Holmes had fallen to their deaths in the Swiss Alps not two weeks after our departure were we truly able to breathe easy once more.


	7. Epilogue: A Letter from Mr. Victor Trevor

It was long after our second departure from London and the reported deaths of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Professor James Moriarty that we received a letter from Terai which has been reproduced below:

Dear Miss Adler,

I hope this letter finds you well and that you have not been forced to spend too long awaiting its arrival. I confess I must share in the blame for the delay. You may imagine my surprise upon receiving such a message after not hearing the name Sherlock Holmes for many years. I do not know if he is still the same man as the one I knew all those years ago, but I will endeavour to answer your entreaties as honestly as I can.

He was a dear friend to me. If he has told you about me, then I hope he has recounted how we met when my dog bit his ankle. It was an uncommon way of making a friend and I doubt he would recommend it, but I believe he eventually came to appreciate my overzealous canine companion for the uncommon friendship that resulted from the incident, if nothing else. We were both friendless aside from the other throughout our time at university and I am afraid I left him alone once more with my sudden departure. It is no small relief to hear that he has found such companionship in my absence, though perhaps I should not flatter myself to think that it was so unlikely.

Your letter surprised me, not only on account of the subject of whom I have not heard in a long time, but also because I would not have expected Sherlock Holmes to ever marry. In all the time I knew him, he had no interest in women and on the few occasions he was forced to interact with them he expressed a general disdain for womankind in addition to his usual dismissal of all who were not himself. If he has changed in that regard, then I can only say that it is for the best.

Neither of us were easy fellows to get along with. In truth, we were both likely culpable for our own isolation. Sherlock Holmes may have said he preferred solitude to foolish company, but in truth he was as lonely as I. He has always needed an audience for his spectacular deductions, which he frequently enjoyed making to my amusement and the dismay of our classmates.

It is difficult not to get lost in reminiscences. It has been a long time since I have had the occasion to speak of Sherlock Holmes. I can but wonder how it was that he spoke of me - well enough for you to turn to me at least. I do not know how much use my words may be to you. I know nothing of Dr. Watson or his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. I can only surmise based on our own friendship, as far removed as we both are from it now.

In an attempt to answer your query, I wonder what he makes of Dr. Watson’s wife. Though at times I felt as though I was taken for granted, if my attention began to stray he would suddenly attempt to make up for his neglect many fold all while thoroughly insulting any other with whom I would begin to socialize. My behavior was hardly better, we were both insecure in our youth, but I wonder if his jealousy has not reared its head again.

The truth of the matter is that all I can give you is tales of Sherlock Holmes’s youth - his many flaws and perhaps even a few of his better qualities. But for all that he is, he has never been so self-sacrificing, nor so malicious as to burden himself with a woman if he was not absolutely certain that she would not be a burden to him. I would have never imagined him marrying, but if that is what he has chosen to do, then I trust that his reason is good and that he will do everything in his considerable power to make you happy. At times he will fail, but I have little doubt that he is a far better person now than he was when I knew him and that he will grow as you do. He was certainly a better man by the time I left than when I met him.

So all I can do is congratulate you both on your engagement, and if you are now married, that as well, and send my very best wishes to Sherlock Holmes.

Always your obedient servant,

Victor Trevor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck around until the end! I hope you enjoyed the ride!


End file.
